The Golden Key

by Melanie Rawn

  “It’s a big table,” Leilias drawled, and Mechella giggled despite herself. “Dusty, too,” she went on, tracing an idle design on the wood. “Nobody lives here now—just a steward and the farm workers. Their houses are down the road. Poor neglected Corasson.”

  Mechella wandered along the row of ladderback chairs, inspecting the flowers embroidered on the seat cushions. No two were alike. “It’s sad for a house that knew such joy to be empty now. Doesn’t anybody ever visit? I thought perhaps the Grijalvas use it the way the do’Verradas use Caterrine.”

  “That’s another thing about this house. No child was ever conceived in it.”

  “Now you’re making fun of me! All the Mistresses are barren!”

  “No, Your Grace, I’m serious. Servants are always getting pregnant, correct? But not one has ever done so under this roof. They’ve been questioned, believe me. Each time they swear the lovemaking happened in the barns or the woods or one of the cottages, but never here. You’d almost think there was some kind of spell to prevent it.”

  Mechella laughed. “I could make a story of it—the first lady who lived here was a nasty, wicked woman who decreed that any woman who got with child under this roof would be put to death. She made a pact with an old witch or wizard to ensure it.”

  “Because her husband had a roving eye and was a scandal with the servant girls in every other house they’d ever lived in,” Leilias contributed, entering into the game.

  “Very good, I hadn’t thought of that.” Mechella stood at the head of the table, fingers clasping the heart-shaped finials of the master’s chair. “Anyway, she let all the servant girls know what fate awaited them. But of course love will not be denied, and so when one of them turned up with a big belly, she had her executed.”

  “As a witch,” Leilias added, “for only another witch could cancel the spell on the house.”

  “But as time went by, the terrible woman found she’d made a terrible mistake. She got the wording of the spell wrong, and instead of limiting her curse to the servant girls, she’d made a mistake and said any woman. So of course she never had any children either, as punishment for her wickedness.”

  “And so it remains to this day, that any woman living at Corasson who wants a baby must get one elsewhere than under this roof!” Leilias concluded, and applauded.

  They continued on their tour of the house, Mechella dying to ask if Arrigo had ever brought Tazia here, but she couldn’t bring herself to say the words. Much as she liked Leilias—for herself as well as for being Cabral’s sister—she could not discuss such personal things.

  As they strolled a dank hallway to the music room, Leilias said casually, “The last do’Verrada visit here nearly ended in disaster. There was a fire in the stables and Grand Duke Cossimio’s father almost died trying to save his favorite hunter. He decided he hated Corasson and bought Chasseriallo, and no do’Verrada has set foot here since.”

  So Mechella’s question was answered without her having asked it. Arrigo had never even been here. That there was at least one place in Tira Virte that he had never seen appealed to Mechella; she could share with him something new to him about his own country. For the rest of the rainy morning she paid close heed to details of design and decoration, the better to describe Corasson when she got home.

  The trouble was, the more she saw of Corasson the more she felt she was at home. She loved the architecture, so reminiscent of the great castles of Ghillas. She loved the warm grace of the interior, neglected though it was, with private and public rooms alike proportioned for daily living, not ceremonial grandeur. She loved the wealth promised by roses and herb gardens and trees, and the charming little pocket gardens snuggled into odd angles of the house. But most of all she loved one thing: the instant she saw Corasson, the moment she entered it, she could picture herself there. Herself, Arrigo, and their children.

  Corasson had not been constructed for war; neither, despite Lizia’s impressions, had it been intended for lovers wishing solitude. It had been meant for a family. One had only to tour the sixteen bedchambers of the second floor to know that the private quarters were designed for a husband and wife and large, happy brood.

  It was a shame that the Grijalvas—who were nothing if not a large family—had never put Corasson to its best use. To Mechella, the house cried out for a loving couple and lots of children with their nurses and tutors, toys on the stairs, ponies in the stables, dogs underfoot, laughter and games and even temper tantrums—all the cheerful chaos of a country home. Mechella had never known such things herself or observed them in other people’s houses. She imagined that Lizia had led that kind of life at Castello Casteya while Count Ormaldo was alive; she suspected something of the same at Palasso Grijalva (surely so, with all those children running about!). But Corasson, meant for a family, languished in lonely emptiness.

  “Cabral,” she said one evening as they waited in the dining room for Lizia, “would your family ever consider selling Corasson, do you think?”

  His brows climbed above startled hazel eyes. “Sell?”

  Down the table, Leilias gave a small, half-choked laugh. “Forgive me, Your Grace. It’s just that the Grijalvas have been trying to get rid of it for two generations!”

  “Now you’ve done it,” Cabral scolded, grinning.

  “What’s she done?” Lizia asked, striding through the double doors to her chair. “Pass the plates. I’m starving, and I can’t wait for those boys of yours to join us.”

  “I want to buy Corasson,” Mechella explained.

  Cabral said, “And my moronna of a sister just told her it’s been for sale with no buyers these last fifty years!”

  Lizia crowed with laughter. “What a bargain you’ll get, ‘Chella! What a trick to play on the Viehos Fratos!”

  Sighing, Leilias said to her brother, “The Countess has never forgiven us Grijalvas.”

  “I’ve never understood why,” he said innocently. “It wasn’t Aldio’s fault that little Dona Grezella picked the lock on his paintbox—”

  “—having decided that all my gowns would look better with red flowers!” Lizia complained, black eyes dancing. “Aldio had the gall to say afterward that my daughter showed a real eye for color!”

  “Aldio,” Cabral said earnestly, “has ever been a shrewd critic.”

  With a snort of appreciation, Lizia turned to Mechella. “Listen, carrida, if you’re serious, then I’ll have my steward stop here on his way to Meya Suerta next month. He can survey the home farm and tell you if the place can turn a profit. You’ll need a structural survey, too.”

  Lizia plotted the purchase of Corasson as single-mindedly as a Marchalo Grando planned a battle. She made lists and estimated prices and debated alterations and repairs. All Mechella could say in response, with a glance at the rain-wrapped window, was, “Eiha, at least we’re sure the roof doesn’t leak!”

  But if she was initially amazed by Lizia’s enthusiasm, that night she remembered what Lizia had said about making her own power and place, and her joy dimmed just a little.

  They left Corasson two mornings later. After long hours being jostled in the carriage, with wheels spewing fountains of mud from every rut in the road, Mechella was deeply grateful for the sight of the wayside Sanctia where they would spend the night. As she stretched the stiffness and aches from her limbs by pacing the length of the lamplit nave, Cabral approached with a large sheet of paper in his hands. It proved to be a detailed sketch of Corasson.

  “Rafeyo’s work,” he explained. “He got bored waiting for the rain to stop, so he went out in it and drew this. I thought you’d like to see it.”

  “He really is very talented, isn’t he? I must thank him for the gift.”

  “It’s … not exactly a gift,” Cabral said awkwardly. “He was showing us his portfolio. He condescended to discuss with me the difficulties of architectural painting.”

  “I see.” She walked to a lamp hung from a pillar and inspected the picture. “He’s very good. I c
an almost see the roses getting ready to bud in the spring. Would he lend me this if I promise to return it once Don Arrigo has seen it?”

  “I’m sure he would, Your Grace.”

  She hesitated. “Does … does Rafeyo still hate me, do you think?”

  Lamplight gilding his green-flecked eyes, Cabral said quietly, “No one who spends two minutes in your company could do otherwise than adore you.”

  She took refuge from astonishment in a swiftly summoned smile. “That’s sweet of you, Cabral. But I’d settle for his not despising me.”

  “Your Grace—Mechella—”

  Whatever he might have said was lost in the silvery chiming of bells summoning all within hearing to partake of the Sanctia’s bounty: a simple meal preceded by a brief ritual of thanks. The elderly resident sancto shuffled into the nave, followed by a few noviciatos, the Grijalvas, and finally Lizia—late as usual. By the time all were assembled and the sancto began singing the ceremony, Cabral was gone from Mechella’s side and she had almost—almost—recovered her calm.

  Still holding the sketch of Corasson, she glanced down the row of worshipers to Rafeyo. She had noted that although Grijalvas did all the proper things during Sanctia ceremonies, most of them resented the Faith that cast them as sinful beings a step removed from heresy. Most hid it; Rafeyo was ostentatious in his contempt. When the small First Loaf was passed around, from which each person was supposed to take a token bite, Rafeyo stepped back a pace and folded his arms across his chest. After an instant’s confusion and a frown from the old sancto, the Loaf went from the young Limner on Rafeyo’s left to Leilias, on his right.

  Mechella had tried to ignore his disrespect for her; he had his grudges just as she had hers, and she surmised they were fairly equal in strength. But she could not ignore his callous rejection of the symbolic sharing of life’s gifts—gifts that included his substantial talent. She recalled hearing Leilias talk of the boy’s ambition, that it was not impossible for one of his superior ability to reach it. As Mechella saw the tight disapproval on the old sancto’s face and the flinty challenge in Rafeyo’s black eyes, she vowed that this self-righteous Grijalva would become Lord Limner over her dead body. It had nothing to do with his mother—not very much, anyway. She simply refused to countenance a person like Rafeyo any where near her family.

  Mechella listened to the litany of thanks to the Mother and Son, let the morsel of bread dissolve on her tongue, and whispered a small prayer for the health and long life of Lord Limner Mequel.

  FORTY-FIVE

  When Mechella and Lizia arrived in Meya Suerta late on a gloomy, overcast afternoon, preparations for Penitenssia were underway. As the mud-spattered carriages were dragged by exhausted horses through the streets to Palasso Verrada, everyone in the city stopped work to cheer. They paused on ladders where banners were being hung; they clung to the tall poles of the street lamps with decorations dangling from their hands; they emerged from bakeries and butcher shops—aprons white with flour or crimson with blood—to wave and yell and sing blessings on the two ladies.

  Groggy with weariness, waking too abruptly from an uneasy doze to an inexplicable uproar, Mechella trembled. “What’s happened?”

  “They’re calling for us.” Lizia nudged her with an elbow. “Tidy your hair, carrida, I’m about to open the curtains.”

  Mechella raked her fingers through a few snarls, then gave up with a wince. “I’m a wreck, Lizi. Must I be seen like this?”

  “Yes.”

  Lizia parted the heavy tapestry curtains. Mechella held herself from shrinking back in fright from a horrible panorama. Beyond the living faces crowded close to the carriage were skulls, hundreds of skulls. Festooned with black ribbons, they grinned from every lamp post and lintel and eave. Full skeletons danced high above the street from wires strung roof-to-roof. Every window was draped in black, with what seemed the unearthed contents of whole cemeteries nailed to the casements.

  Penitenssia, she told herself frantically, clinging to Lizia’s hand and trying not to show her fear. It’s Penitenssia, that’s all, just readying the city for the holiday—

  But the horses were as skittish as she, startled by the danza morta figures overhead. The carriage lurched. Mechella cried out.

  “She’s injured—”

  “Our Mechella has been hurt!”

  “Matra ei Filho, preserve her!”

  “Fetch a physician before the baby is lost!”

  Righting herself with Lizia’s help, Mechella tried to reassure the crowd. She smiled and waved and called out that she was perfectly fine. But the rumor wildfired and a great moan shuddered the street.

  “Matra Muita Dolcha, mercy on our Mechella!”

  “I vow by my family’s icon to give this month’s profits to the poor if only our Dona Mechella and her child are spared—”

  “I vow my silver cup to the Sanctia—”

  “Find a physician! Quickly!”

  Amid the screams of grief and the promises to the Mother and Son a man’s strong voice shouted, “Make way! Make way!”

  “Cabral!” Mechella recognized his beard-stubbled face as he struggled to the carriage, shouldering people aside. When he reached the window, she clutched at his extended hand. “Cabral, tell them I’m all right, tell them—”

  “You’ll have to show yourself!” he yelled over the din.

  She cringed against Lizia. “I can’t!”

  “It’s that or the people will run mad and the horses will bolt, and then you will be in danger! Hurry, Mechella! Do you want everyone to be trampled?”

  “Do it,” Lizia ordered. “I’m too little, they’d never see me. Open the door and stand up. I’ll hang onto your skirts, Cabral will keep you steady. Rapidia, ‘Chella!”

  And so, bolstered by Cabral’s strength, she stood in the opened doorway of the carriage and at the sight of her the people bellowed with joy. She lifted a hand to wave; incredibly, the gesture silenced them. She glanced wildly down at Cabral, who nodded encouragement, eyes shining.

  “Good people—” she began. And then she saw their faces, the individual faces of her people straining toward her, concerned and joyous and anxious and loving.

  “My people,” she corrected herself. And the roar of delight that was their answer echoed all the way to Palasso Verrada—

  —where Arrigo stopped in the middle of a sentence to the Blacksmiths Guild, and listened with a thousand speculations rampaging through his mind. The bellow resolved into a chant, one he had heard before, and just as he identified it, the guildmaster cried, “Dona Mechella is home! Grazzo do’Matra ei Filho, our Mechella is home at last!”

  “Merditto! You should’ve seen her—parading through the streets in front of the carriage, with Lizia up on the box with the reins in her hands!”

  “Eiha, Lizia handles horses better than she does her children,” Tazia murmured, knowing Arrigo would not hear her. No one else would either; her caza was as deserted tonight as a graveyard at a pauper’s funeral. And as cold.

  “She walked—walked!—all the way to the Palasso, people singing and holding up their babies as if mere sight of her could bless them all their lives!” He paced stiffly, front door to the staircase where she sat, staircase to wall, wall to front door. “My Ghillasian Princess of a wife, in a dirty gown three sizes too small and some camponesso’s lice-ridden cloak on her shoulders, with her hair in tangles and Cabral at her side grinning like an idiot—”

  Tazia shifted on the bottom step, fisting her hands between her knees. She’d heard the whole tale this afternoon from Rafeyo, of course—whose expressions of disgust had been hymns of adoration compared to Arrigo’s tirade.

  “—and I had to stand on the Palasso steps with Father and Mother and all the conselhos, watching this performance as if I approved of it! When she finally arrived—merditto, like a Marchallo at the head of an army of rabble!—I had to kiss her and make much of her and stand there for half an hour while they all yelled themselves hoarse over her! Firs
t she sneaks away like a thief, now she comes back like this!”

  Taking the small lamp from the floor beside her, Tazia rose and looked up at him. There was more gray in his hair; small wonder, with the cares of the nation on his shoulders while his wife made a public spectacle of herself.

  “I’m freezing, Arrigo.”

  His boot heels thudded to a stop on the floorboards. “Haven’t you been listening? Don’t you understand what she’s done?”

  “Of course. She’s come back to you.”

  He glared. “Is that all you can say?”

  “She’s come back to you,” Tazia repeated. “And you have come back to me.”

  She took his hand and led him to the little room hidden beneath the stairs, and lit the candles behind the upholstered sofa, and locked the double locks of the door.

  Penitenssia was at once the most solemn and the most riotous holiday of the Ecclesial calendar, serving to clear away the old year and give joyous welcome to the new. The date shifted a bit each year, for the third day must always coincide with the first day of luna oscurra, moondark.

  Dia Sola was, as its name suggested, for solitary contemplation of sins. No one ventured out except in dire emergency. The city, draped in black, lay empty and silent but for the skeletons strung above the streets, twitching in their death dance, rattling in the winter wind.

  The second day, Dia Memorria, was dedicated to ancestors. Small offerings of water and wheat were placed on newly tended graves. The dead who had no living descendants were propitiated with bits of paper drawn with the sigil of the Mother and Son secured by pebbles at the headstones. All Meya Suerta stayed awake until midnight, keeping watch by black wax candles for stray spirits that had accidentally gone unhonored that day.

  On Herva ei Ferro, women stayed indoors weaving special charms on iron pins from grasses cleared from the graves. The complex patterns—each family’s was different, taught mother-to-daughter for generations—formed knots signifying the protection given by the dead to the living in gratitude for remembering them. While women wove charm after charm, men built effigies of wood and straw and iron nails. Figures of people and animals were draped in black cloth painted with the white outlines of bones. topped by skull masks symbolizing sins and misfortunes. At dusk these apparitions were paraded through the streets with the Premia Sancta and Premio Sancto leading the way, intoning prayers. By nightfall everyone crowded into the Cathedral Zocalo, where the effigies were secured on poles anchored in hay bales. In absolute silence, in a night unlit by torches and empty of the moon, the people confronted grinning spectral images of Greed, Jealousy, Anger, Sickness, Adultery, and a dozen others. By an eerie trick of special white paint, the skeletons glowed in the dark; most children had nightmares for weeks afterward, and behaved themselves scrupulously long into spring.